oh sheet.

The itch under my right knee screams 'scratch me' and I keep scratching keep scratching like the never ending itch of a bug bite on the bottom of your foot, unreachable until you settle into bed at night, rubbing and rubbing your sole against your sheets. Soles against your sheets, souls against your sheets—sharing secrets under comforters and covers, sewn into satin, an inner tug and pull, a nag that nags naggingly – the constant threat of revelation not revelation but reveal-ation. there it is out on the sheets, bare and beautiful- the naked truth.